Who’s on your shoulder?
“I can think of nothing great that is also easy.”
Tim Keller said this in his book on prayer, but it applies to, well, everything. Parenting, church-planting, prayer, faith, there is no great work (and mundane work is great) that is easy, and so we must always be at work slaying foes of doubt and discouragement.
Sometimes the foes are in our mind and sometimes they’re presented to us through people. So often it only takes one negative person, or one critical comment, or one outsider questioning your motives or methods and we’re tempted to throw in the towel and declare the whole thing a failure.
*Sigh*
In these moments I often recall this sweet lesson from several years ago, when we were so very fresh into the church-planting adventure, and every tiny bump in the road sent my faith on a tearful face-plant. But I remember so clearly how God ministered to me through the story of Absalom:
King David had been driven out by his treasonous son, Absalom. Absalom had won over the hearts of Israel in order to take away the Kingdom from his father. Absalom was not a quality individual. So David’s driven out of Judah, and a battle ensues, and Joab–David’s commander–kills Absalom, they are victorious, and they deliver the good news back to David.
Except instead of rejoicing that the Kingdom was restored, David is devastated about his son.
Understandable.
But, Joab rebukes David, because Absalom was the enemy, the whole point was to remove him so that the rightful kingdom could be established. David had hundreds, thousands, of faithful followers who had been fighting for him and standing up for him, and now instead of rejoicing that all those people were saved, he’s sorrowful because this one person was gone. And Joab says this,
You love those who hate you and hate those who love you.
Joab says, “You have today covered with shame the faces of all your servants, who have this day saved your life … because you love those who hate you and hate those who love you. For you have made it clear today that commanders and servants are nothing to you, for today I know that if Absalom were alive and all of us were dead today, then you would be pleased.” (2 Samual 19:5-6)
You love those who hate you and hate those who love you.
In other words, “You only care about what the critics think, instead of caring what your faithful family and followers think.” Or:
You put all your emotional energy into trying to please people who cannot be pleased.
We’ve all encountered someone in our lives who just couldn’t be pleased. Who did or does not accept us or approve of us. And it’s as if that person, whoever it is (and however long ago we encountered them), sits on our shoulder, every day of our lives, and watches everything we do. And we live as if we have to please or win the approval or acceptance of that person. And instead of simply rejoicing in all the people who DO love us, approve of us, accept us, and are pleased (first and foremost God our Father!), we focus all our energy on that one problem person.
Guess what? That’s exhausting.
Even though it’s enormously difficult, we have to flick that person off our shoulder, and focus on the blessed, supportive, loving people in our lives. Sure, we love our enemies, but we don’t let them live in our shoulder and dictate all we do. When we do that, we’re simply discounting (“covering with shame”) those faithful friends and family we have who support and rally around us.
So whoever that person is who sits on your shoulder, pray God’s richest blessings on their life, then carefully flick them off your shoulder and live for the audience of One. Value and celebrate and appreciate the family and friends you would otherwise take for granted. Don’t give the gripers more real estate than necessary. Today, take a moment to thank and appreciate those faithful supporters who give you life and strength.
And ask the Holy Spirit to fill up your heart, mind, and shoulders with His life-giving truth so there’s no room for anyone else.
{Happy Monday! Thanks for reading.}
Sky’s the limit now!
“I don’t WANT to go!”
He curled up on the couch, burrowing his head into the pillow. The way he protested you’d think we’d suggested Family Night at the DMV. No, this was Family Night at the pool. Heidi had wanted to take swim lessons so she’d be ready for summer, but all the sessions were full, then when I crunched the numbers I realized we could attend the weekly Family Night at the pool and all swim together for the same price. We made the plan. I followed my tried-and-true method for introducing my boy to a new activity:
I told him about it the week before.
I told him about it three days before.
I told him about it the day before.
I told him about it that morning.
I told him about it after dinner.
I told him about it 15 minutes before.
I told him about it 10 minutes before.
I told him about it five minutes before.
But now it was time to go and now it was time for him to slip into I-hate-trying-new-things-mode. It’s not that he doesn’t like to swim. He loves it. It’s not as if we were planning an activity he loathed. It’s just that he’s never done this exact activity before.
Thankfully, we’ve done this a few times. I told him he didn’t have to get in the water, he could bring a book and sit on the side while we swam. But I suggested he bring his swimsuit …. just in case. (Smile) Heidi leaned in close to me before we walked out the door and whispered knowingly, “Once he gets there he’s gonna love it.” I nodded and she smiled wide. She’s done this a few times too.
I must say, Spring Break was a poor week for our first Family Night. As Heidi and I emerged from the ladies locker room we saw about 53,000 children and parents splashing and shouting and shouting and splashing and my sensory-overload alarm started blaring in my brain as my eyes glazed over and I was rendered suddenly incoherent: Why am I here?
I scanned the sea of flailing arms and faces and finally found Jeff beaming, waving us over. Beside him was begoggled Dutch, dipping and diving and bobbing up and down. I stepped into the water and he rushed through the water to my side, breathless with excitement:
“Mommy! I did a double somersault without even coming up for oxygen!” He shook his head amazed, high as a kite with the exhilaration of achievement. “Sky’s the limit now!”
And with that he was underwater again, leaving Jeff and me laughing out loud, mouthing to each other across the swimming heads between us: Sky’s the limit now!
That’s our boy.
That’s just it though, isn’t it? For me too. Really it’s just that one hump I’ve got to get over. That one scary thing. Aren’t we all just kids who must do One Brave Thing today, and then maybe again tomorrow? My mind knows that swimming, faith, is not that bad. In fact, it’ll probably be fun. But sometimes I’d still rather stay here on the couch and burrow my head into a pillow.
But really, all I have to do is jump on in. Once I hop in the pool the work is really done. Right?
Sky’s the limit now!
{Oh the fun of raising kids and BEING kids. May you jump in! Happy weekend.}
Why some cannot hear hope…
Why can’t you hear me?! I thought to myself. Why aren’t these good words of truth sinking in? Then I remembered this, from several years ago:
The kids were beyond excited. Papa was treating us to dinner out at a restaurant. Not just any restaurant, a buffet. For just this one night, health-conscious mama (me) would hold her tongue and let these littles pick whatever they wanted to eat.
When we arrived it was Family Night, so each kid received a balloon. Even better! They were delirious with joy. However, we soon discovered that Dutch’s wasn’t sealed correctly so within a matter of minutes his balloon was completely flat while Heidi’s bopped happily in the air.
He was crushed. Somehow the excitement of the evening and the busyness of the restaurant and the dozens of food options in front of him completely overwhelmed him and he was so upset he wouldn’t eat. He wouldn’t stand in line (it was long) to get another balloon. He couldn’t think rationally. And even though Jeff sat alone with him for 5 minutes trying to talk reason into his brain, he couldn’t get himself put together. Finally, they walked over to me, I suggested we just go eat together, and Dutch agreed and was absolutely fine. Jeff (understandably) felt frustrated. He had suggested that same exact thing for 5 minutes straight:
Why hadn’t Dutch listened to him?
I thought of Exodus 6 and that truth I try to return to: “Sometimes people are too crushed to hear you.”
See, the children of Israel get a really bad rap. Yes, they complained. And complained and complained and complained. But if I read through the exodus story and honestly put myself in their shoes, I must admit I’d be complaining too.
And a short sentence from Exodus 6 might help us be a little more patient with the people in our lives who don’t hear us when we try to speak hope.
Moses returns to Egypt with high hopes. He’s excited to free the nation of Israel from Egypt’s slavery, and God speaks life and encouragement to Moses, promises of hope. So Moses takes courage, and goes and repeats all of these words of hope and reassurance to the people of Israel,
“But they did not listen to Moses, because of their broken spirit and harsh slavery.” (6:9)
I always focus on the part where they don’t listen to Moses. Listen to him! I think to myself. Listen! Quit complaining and not having faith. See the great things before you! Believe!
But their spirits were broken.
They couldn’t listen. They couldn’t hear. They had no spark of hope or faith left in their hearts. They had endured harsh slavery. Their spirits were broken. It was as if Moses was talking nonsense. They had seen no good, no hope, no life, no promise. How could they believe Moses’ words? All they knew was cruelty, slavery, hate, bondage. Their spirits were broken.
When God calls us to minister (and he calls all of us to minister) He calls us to give hope and speak life and truth to those whose spirits are broken. And, if their spirits truly are broken (because of any form of harsh slavery that is sadly present all over our world), it is possible that they cannot listen. They cannot even muster up the strength to believe the good news. They may not see the vision you see. They have been blinded by hurt, their sense of hope seared by pain.
Even though it was only a balloon, it was a picture of Dutch’s heart, so when it was crushed so was his spirit, and it took some time before he could hear.
So what do we do? We share words of hope, life, and truth with others, and if someone cannot listen, we must carry on anyway. Rather than get frustrated or angry because they cannot see the promised land, we must, like Moses, continue to pursue their freedom, their good, whether they can see the light or not. If we hold out our hand they bite it (!), we must hold out our hand again.
And again and again.
Remember these words, “They might have a broken spirit.”
This doesn’t excuse others’ sins, but it covers them (1 Peter 4:8). It says, “It’s ok if you don’t listen. It’s ok if you can’t see the vision. It’s ok if you can’t see past your pain. I’ll still take your hand and help lead you out of slavery, help lead you toward the promised land, help you be all that God wants you to be.”
Isn’t that what Jesus did for us?
We live in a world of broken spirits. God, fill us with a compassion that quells impatience, an understanding that removes frustration. Help us see your people as you see them. And when our spirits are broken, help those around us to be patient with us, and fill us with your hope.
—
Is there someone in your life who won’t listen to your encouragement no matter what you say? Do you find yourself getting frustrated? How can you pray for that person, that God would heal their broken spirit, and how can you choose to continue to bless that person today? Thanks for reading.
‘Til the fog lifts…
I looked out the window: Thick, heavy, fog. Great.
What is it with funks? So hard to explain. So hard to predict. We know all the right answers, the shoulds and oughts and answers. We can quote the verse. Rejoice!
What about when you don’t?! That fog settles inside too. So heavy. The kids awake cross. I feel lethargic and sleepy. There’s nothing inspiring on the agenda today, and even my favorite mundane activities have lost their charm.
I go through the motions, looking for miracles. Where are You in my mundane today, Lord? I make the oatmeal. Pour coffee. Even my beloved morning brew lacks its usual draw. The kids can feel it too. What will we do today? Our plan, OMSI, is changed because apparently the museum is closed.
I look outside the window again at the cold, thick fog. I can’t even see the chicken coop.
We’d had the false-promise of sunshine. 66-degrees and sunny. Really? But it’s not really the weather, it’s something else. My own tendency to isolate, draw in, find comfort in independence, hole up and hide a bit ’til the fog clears. I don’t like the fog–draw the blinds and crawl back in bed until the sun breaks.
We wait. And wait.
And I stare at my phone because I know a quick text can open up this darkness and let a close friend in. I know who and how, they are always near and eager to love me, to pray, but there’s a sick satisfaction in just lying down in the fog, hiding in obscurity. I stare at my phone. Nah.
The kids and I go upstairs, try to plan our way out of the fog-funk, come up with a solution. That always works, right? (Rolling my eyes here.) We have ideas, different ones: both kids disagree (on everything). I turn to do something and some random gyration (as they roughhouse) lands his head straight into her nose.
SCREAM!
That is IT.
I’m so done.
Get in your room now.
The command is for him but I do it too. Walk into my room and throw myself on the bed, close my eyes, facedown in a pillow. I just can’t look at it anymore, any of it. I’m being childish and selfish, I know it. But I don’t care. Don’t I ever get to pout?! Why do I always have to be the grown-up??
Heidi tip-toes softly in, she’s ten-times more mature than me at this point. She stands beside the bed, and softly caresses my back, her tiny starfish hands gently running up and down my back.
“It’s ok, Mommy. It’s ok.”
Oh that girl. She’s the one that got hit and here she is, leaning over me, in love. I pray the simple pathetic prayer, “Father, show me what to do.” And for me, now, I know what it is:
Reach out into the fog.
I pull Heidi up into my arms, kiss her perfect tiny mouth, and go downstairs, send out that text to that dear one: Honest confession and request for prayer. It isn’t long, but it’s me reaching out into the fog:
“I can’t see clearly right now, help! Could you reach out and take my hand?“
Even before I hear back, I can see a little better now. See my sin (anger) and theirs (complaining). I head back up, gather them into my arms, talk honestly about our sin and sit in prayer together, asking God to forgive us and grant a fresh start to the day. My phone buzzes with a response, one so perfect in its perspective that it has me laughing out loud. Oh, being loved–what grace!
Just then we three look up, through the skylight: Perfect blue.
The fog has lifted.
{For whatever fog you face today. Reach out, to Him, to another. Even here–I’d love to pray for you. Thanks for reading.}